


this city will change us, we'll collide in the streetlights

by flyingsolo_flyingfree



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brief mention of lusting after each other while Sam was underage (but nothing happened), Dirty Talk, Implied Switching, M/M, NYC, Wincest - Freeform, alcohol cw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:11:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4715693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingsolo_flyingfree/pseuds/flyingsolo_flyingfree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s probably a year or so after Sam leaves Stanford and comes on the road with Dean when they end up getting a case in New York. It’s surprising to Dean, because how dumb can a monster possibly be, trying to inhabit one of the hugest cities ever while still remaining inconspicuous?</p>
            </blockquote>





	this city will change us, we'll collide in the streetlights

**Author's Note:**

> I can't decide if this is a soft M rating or a hard T. Somewhere in the middle, probably.

It’s probably a year or so after Sam leaves Stanford and comes on the road with Dean when they end up getting a case in New York. It’s surprising to Dean, because how dumb can a monster possibly be, trying to inhabit one of the hugest cities ever while still remaining inconspicuous?

It's a Wendigo, similar to the one they’d taken out in the woods not too long before. Admittedly, the thing had a good system going. It lived at an abandoned station, 18th street station to be precise, along the 6 line. It closed in 1948, and the thing’s probably been living down there ever since. It feasts on construction workers, the men who go underground to do maintenance on the subway. It’s been picking them off late at night, and the MTA has been releasing statements saying that, essentially, they didn’t have a damn clue where the missing workers had gone, but that they were taking zero blame. Typical.

They figured out pretty quickly where the Wendigo was stationed. The construction workers who’d gone missing were working on the 6 line on nights and weekends, and usually they were getting taken from around the 14th street station. The hunt was simple, really. They broke into the abandoned station, which was creepy as all get out, and staked out, waiting for the Wendigo to return from its most recent hunt. They immediately freed the three men that were tied up, Sam carrying each of them to safety, bridal style, in a typical Sammy manner. They’d lost a lot of blood, but Dean and Sam seemed to arrive just in the nick of time. Once Sam had all three men above ground, he found a nurse, left her in charge of getting the men to a hospital, and high-tailed it back underground, where Dean was having a faceoff with the Wendigo by himself.

“Little help, here, man,” Dean called from where he was fighting the thing. Sam managed to distract it long enough for Dean to get to the flare gun that had been thrown across the tracks during the tussle. The Wendigo went up in flames nicely, a burst of light in the otherwise pitch-black tunnel. The two of them didn’t stick around, wiping their prints from the railings and leaving the corpse to rot on the old tracks. Some poor maintenance person would stumble across it eventually, the MTA would bullshit a story about someone else saving the three men, and life would continue on.

Sam originally expressed hesitation about taking this hunt on in the first place—they had a pretty wide network of hunters, especially now that they had the Harvelles to cover them. He protested that there were lots of hunters who were closer to New York and they were out in Michigan when they heard of the hunt—from there, it was a long ass drive to haul to New York. But Dean insisted, saying that he wanted to take Sammy to the city. Sam had never experienced New York. Dean had only been there a handful of times with John, but Sam was too young at the time to come along. Even if the city itself was overrated, it did have its redeeming qualities.

Of course, they couldn’t afford to stay in the actual city, so they’d parked Baby at their crummy hotel in Hoboken and taken public transportation in. _That_ was an experience.

After they wasted the Wendigo, it was about 11 at night. “Plenty of time to go enjoy the nightlife!” Dean declared, rubbing his hands together. Sam raised his eyebrows, was used to bars that closed at midnight or one. Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s Manhattan, dude. Some clubs are open until four a.m.” With a sigh of resignation, Sam agreed to let Dean take him bar hopping.

They took a cab over to near Madison Square Park so Dean could show Sam the Flatiron (the sole touristy thing he had in his arsenal, since he hadn’t seen much of the city even when he went all those years ago). It was totally worth it for the way Sam’s eyes lit up, the fucking dork, and he blathered on and on about how incredible the old architecture was in that entire area downtown, how beautiful it was. Dean was loathe to admit that seeing Sammy’s whole face melted into awe was a sight that made his stomach turn, but he was also pretty adamant about the fact that he really needed a drink right about now. So he dragged Sam to the bar they’re currently at, some pub that’s upscale enough to have jumbo TVs to show sports games, and a few pool tables, but low-key enough to be classified as a pub.

And that’s where the trouble begins.

See, there was sexual tension between them when they were younger. Dean walked in on Sam jerking off a few times, and it turned him on more than he cared to admit. And once or twice, when Sam was having a dream that was very clearly not a nightmare, his hips churning into the mattress, sweat beading above his upper lip, he called out Dean’s name into the darkness. It was enough to make Dean come so hard, he saw stars.

But Sam was young, having just barely passed Dean in height. And they never acknowledged it, this thing between them. Nothing came to fruition and Dean had intended to damn well keep it that way. Then Sam ran off to Stanford. Dean knows that part of Sam’s motivation was to get away from Dean, from this unspoken heaviness that lingered between them. And Dean didn’t blame him, wished him well and knew it was for the best, but that didn’t mean he didn’t miss his brother like crazy.

Now, since Sam’s come back on the road with him, it’s been there, this undercurrent of _something_. It’s in the way Sam looks at him, like he’s calculating, analyzing, digging deep beneath Dean’s skin. It’s in the way there was really no choice to make when it came to Cassie, because deciding between a settled life with her or a life on the road with his brother beside him, it wasn’t a decision at all. Sure, being with Cassie again was nice. It was awesome, and then it made him ache, but at the end of the day, Sam’s his number one. Always.

So here’s where the disaster unfolds—both of them loose after a few shots, sitting in pub Dean doesn’t even know the name of. They’re eyeing the pool tables, but mostly just eyeing each other. They’re talking, talking about various hunts they’ve been on and people they’ve met along the way, but it feels like there’s a lot between the lines, too. Sam’s eyes are dark, and Dean’s pretty sure it isn’t the crappy lighting of the bar, even if he’s desperate to believe that’s the cause. Sam knocks his foot against Dean’s ankle underneath the high table, then he leaves it there, and that one point of contact is enough to drive Dean out of his mind.

He gets up to get the both of them a beer, to take a breather from all the intense eye contact. He’s wearing Dad’s old leather jacket and he wants to take it off, it’s hot in here, but at the same time, it feels sort of like armor, like one of the few defenses he has left against his brother. Thick leather between their bodies. It’s important, somehow. So he keeps it on, and sweats bullets underneath.

He grabs the two beers and brings them both out of the table. They’re PBRs, because they’re in hipster midtown New York, so they’re in a can rather than a bottle. Out of sheer habit, Dean waits until he gets back to the table and he opens Sam’s can in front of him. It’s what he always does when he buys drinks for women, waits to open the cans in front of them so they know he’s not drugging them, so they know he’s not a threat.

He realizes what he’s doing and just huffs a laugh, thinking that Sam’s probably close enough to tipsy that he won’t notice the old habit Dean’s picked up over the years.

But of course, Sam sees it and recognizes the behavior. He cracks up, says, “Oh, how chivalrous of you,” but his eyes are soft, gentle crinkles around the edges. Dean nearly knocks the chair over when he scurries back to his seat. Which, of course, prompts more laughter from Sam, and more embarrassment on his part, especially because it’s not the booze making him clumsy, it’s the want, pounding sluggishly through him like tar.

Sam, of course, goes right back to his previous position, this time cradling Dean’s ankle between his two jumbo-sized feet. (And there’s another topic Dean tries but can’t avoid—the size of Sam’s feet, and Sam’s _hands_ , goddamn. He saw Sam naked plenty of times in the years before Stanford, but they’ve been more careful since then, and the width and sheer size of Sam’s hands makes him wonder, makes his mind go places it shouldn’t ever go.)

Dean tries to change the topic, lighten the mood between them. “So,” he says with what he hopes is a mischievous smirk, “if I’m gonna get any tats, I’m probably better off doing it around here, right?”

Sam nods slowly, takes a long sip of his beer. Dean watches a few stray drops of beer roll down the side of the can, watches Sam swallow, then turns his head away and feigns interest in whatever game is on TV. (Dean hasn’t been paying any attention at all, to be honest, and he doesn’t even know what sport it is, but suddenly, he’s totally caught up in it. It’s worlds better than being captivated by Sam’s throat.)

Sam puts the can back down on the table, tracing the ring of condensation with his finger. “Yeah, probably higher quality tattoo parlors here than in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. What would you get?”

Dean thinks long and hard about it. “See, when I was younger, I wanted all sorts of them—tally marks for all the times I nearly died, something as a tribute to Mom, hunting rifle, whatever. The whole bit. But now…” Dean glances down at his body (which is an arbitrary thing to do, since he’s fully clothed, but he knows exactly where all his scars are, each brand beneath his tee shirt and jeans), circles the rim of the beer can absently with his thumb.

“I like my scars, most of the time. Marks me as a hunter. They look damn cool, and they always impress the ladies.” He winks, and Sam raises an eyebrow, which makes Dean think maybe he didn’t play it off as cool as he hoped.

“But sometimes, I just want my body clean again, you know? No marks, no stories to tell. Just my own skin. I still want tats, and I don’t think I’d ever be in a situation where I’d regret what I got or whatever.” He takes a long pull of his beer. Sam’s eyes flick down to his throat, which serves to both make Dean feel better about staring earlier, and to tighten a fist of panic in his chest. No, this isn’t supposed to go both ways, here. _Danger, danger_. 

He tries to pick up where he left off on his train of thought. “But sometimes, I think maybe I’d look down and want my skin to be clean again.” He shrugs, eyes glazing over. “I’m probably not making any sense.”

Sam shakes his head, leans forward on his elbows and meets Dean’s eyes. “No, I get it, man.” Sam bites his lip and seems to consider it, to let Dean’s words seep in before he replies. Sam’s stupidly contemplative when he’s anywhere in the vicinity of being drunk. “You’re kinda earthy like that. It makes sense.”

Dean cocks his eyebrow, incredulous. “Earthy? What the fuck, Sam.”

“Yeah, you are. Probably comes with being a hunter.” Sam tilts his head, narrows his eyes and glances Dean up and down. Sam sounds so fucking nonchalant as he adds, “I wonder how that translates to sex.”

Dean’s really, really glad he’d held off on taking another sip of his beer because if he had, he’d be spewing it across the table in one of those supposedly comical spit-takes. As it is, his mouth falls open. There’s no way Sam just said that, said it like it was a normal everyday observation about his big brother. No way in hell.

But apparently, Dean heard him correctly. Sam’s eyes have gone even darker, flashing in the dim light of the bar, and he sits back, but his eyes don’t leave Dean’s face.

It occurs to Dean that he should probably say something, but he’s so bushwhacked that he doesn’t even know where to begin. He ends up just croaking, “Is that so.”

“Mmmm,” Sam says, pursing his lips. Dean has no idea when all of these walls crumbled between him and his brother. He can’t blame it entirely on the alcohol—neither of them are past tipsy, and Dean’s sobering up with this conversation. Maybe it’s something about this damn city, propelling things forward, pushing people out of their comfort zones. They’ve spent years dodging this, dodging whatever this is that’s so explosive and caustic and potentially disastrous. Potentially amazing.

Sam’s face is an oxymoron of both wide open and carefully masked. There’s still lust in the way he’s looking at Dean, but his face is blank. Dean can tell he’s thinking hard, can practically see the steam coming out of his ears with the tumble of his thoughts. All Dean can do is wait, because he feels like he’s lost his footing here, it’s Sam’s move.

After a long moment, Sam hops off the chair, ambles over to the bar and slaps a few bills as a tip on the stained wood. Dean is about to tell Sam that he already tipped, but then Sam’s coming back over, taking his jacket from the back of the chair and hooking it on his finger, slinging it over his shoulder. Dean can’t recall the last time his throat was so dry.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Dean finishes his beer first (he has a feeling he’s going to need it), then follows Sam’s lead as he strolls out of the bar, out into the New York air.

Dean tries to reorient himself, take stock of their location and figure out how to get home from here. They’re somewhere near the 28th street station, although really they should walk over to the 23rd street station so they can take the F down to West 4th, because that’s where they’ll catch the PATH back to Hoboken.

Dean’s so caught up in trying to figure out navigation that he only barely registers when Sam says, “Let’s just stop for a minute.” Dean finally notices Sam’s come to a halt, a few paces behind him, pulled off the center of the sidewalk. He’s dropped his gear, and he’s not looking at Dean, he’s looking up.

Dean backtracks and joins him, hesitantly dropping his stuff as well. He doesn’t really know what’s going on, so he mirrors Sam’s pose, takes in the night sky in Manhattan.

“It’s sort of crazy you can still make out any stars from here, withthe light pollution and all that.”

“Did you actually just say light pollution?” Sam snorts, his head still tipped back, and Dean glances over at his brother.

“Yeah, I’m not a completely ignorant asshole,” he spits, no real venom in his voice. This is too much of a moment for that. Although Dean still can’t classify what sort of a moment it is.

He gets a pretty good idea, though, ten seconds later, when Sam lowers his gaze and meets Dean’s eyes. “Never said you were,” he mutters, and wow, their faces are really close.

It’s a hop skip and a jump for Sam to lean down and fuse their mouths together. About a thousand different knee-jerk reactions sear through Dean, all colliding in the pit of his stomach. He’s warring with himself—he should not be kissing his brother—but then Sam wraps his hands around Dean’s ribcage and backs him into the grating of one of the bodegas. Dean spares a thought for the fact that it’s probably filthy, but then Sam is on him, his arms wrapped so tightly around Dean’s torso that he could probably touch his own chest again with his fingertips. He slides his tongue past Dean’s teeth and Dean cannot possibly deny that, not when it’s Sam who’s plundering his mouth like a damn treasure hunt. And God, Sam taking charge like this turns Dean on like nothing else. Sam shoves his leg between Dean’s, nudging his thighs apart and rutting against him. Dean can’t help the moan that tumbles out of his mouth then, can’t help the way he thrusts against Sam’s leg, the two layers of denim providing friction that isn’t anywhere near enough, but it’s so good all the same.

Sam shoves him back against the grate again, the thing rattling in protest, and Dean hits his head against it as Sam begins his assault on his throat and his head falls back. Sam rumbles an apology and one of his hands comes up to cradle the back of Dean’s head. He can see over Sam’s shoulder now, and is reminded of the fact that while it isn’t broad daylight, and it’s a weeknight, there are still people out and about in this city. _We’re those people_ , he realizes, shocked. A couple holding hands stares at them as they walk past, and Dean doesn’t have anything left in him to care. He doesn’t give a fuck if there’s a neon flashing sign above their heads that says “they’re brothers!”. It was a big concern of his, years of angsting over how depraved he was for wanting his brother, but all of that seemed to flee the moment Sam’s tongue started flicking across his incisors.

They’re completely shameless, fiercely making out on the sidewalk of some irrelevant area of Manhattan, and Dean doesn’t ever want to stop. Ever. Sam firmly grabs his ass and hauls him up, brute strength practically lifting Dean off the ground so that their cocks line up. They both let out a groan this time.

Okay, fine, maybe this is getting to be a bit much for the street.

Dean tries to break away, and then Sam’s look of confusion draws him back in for another heated kiss, smoothing his thumb along the worried creases in Sam’s forehead.

“C’mon,” he whispers against Sam’s mouth, “I know someplace better than here." 

He leans down to grab his shit and nearly stumbles trying to stand up straight again, cursing the blood flow that has gone straight to his dick and made him almost feverish and uncoordinated. He starts walking, fast-paced (the gait of an actual New Yorker, Dean thinks, momentarily proud of himself, even though he generally loathes 90% of the population here), and he hears Sam grab his stuff and jog up behind him.

“Dean, if you’re thinking we’re gonna wait until we get back to fucking Hoboken,” he hisses threateningly, catching up, and Dean barks a laugh. No way. They’d get arrested for public indecency before they even made it to the PATH.

“Nope,” he says, and he switches his duffle to his other hand so that he can lace his fingers through Sam’s. “There’s a place near here. A bit more secluded.”

Sam breathes a sigh of relief and Dean almost laughs, giddy and high on adrenaline, and it’s all so surreal. He tugs Sam along, just a few blocks until they’re on west 27th, the place Dean was looking for. He remembers it from when John met up with another hunter to exchange weapons. They’d originally intended to meet in Madison Square Park, but it was too conspicuous, even at night. So they found this place ten blocks up. It’s just a small park area between a few buildings, some obscure sandwich shop on one side, brick wall on the other. There are benches, and then some more benches on an elevated platform sorta thing. Dean drags Sam up the three stairs, to the benches where it’s mostly hidden from the street. If anyone walks by and cares to really look, they’d see what’s going on, but it’s definitely better than being shoved up against a metal grate on a sidewalk between two lively bars. 

They drop their stuff again and just sit, catching their breath from the sheer absurdity of it all. Dean pulls Sam’s legs onto his lap, grinning. He brings his hand down hard against the denim of Sam's jeans and Sam jumps. “Responsive. I like that,” Dean says, rubbing the spot on Sam’s thigh.

Sam flushes, his cheeks already pink from the alcohol, now turning ruby beneath the fluorescent street lights. It’s so damn cute that Dean can’t help but brace his hand on Sam’s knee, lean in, cup the back of Sam’s head and kiss him. Sam just opens, blooming like a flower beneath Dean’s mouth, his hands going to Dean’s waist and lower back. It’s only about a minute before Sam pulls back, murmurs, “Hold on.” He stands up, and Dean’s about to protest, but then Sam turns to face him, and he mounts his brother, straddling him. Dean actually forgets to breathe for a second while Sam lowers himself into Dean’s lap, and when he grits out, “I can work with this,” his voice is wrecked.

Sam wastes no time fisting his hands in Dean’s leather jacket, finally pushing it down off Dean’s shoulders. Dean lets him. He doesn’t need armor anymore. 

They bite at each other’s mouths, vicious, lust overflowing in the sandpaper swipe of their tongues. Dean’s instantly addicted, because beneath the stale taste of beer there’s the taste of his brother, and even if they’ve never swapped spit before, it’s familiar, it’s something he knows—an extension of the way Sam smells, the sweat on his skin when he wakes up drenched from nightmares, the sheen across his chest when he finishes doing pull-ups. Sam’s familiar, every part of him, even if this is new. It soothes the remaining guilt in Dean’s gut. They weren’t ever going to end up anywhere but here, he realizes dazedly.

Sam begins to grind down on Dean, an unsteady rhythm that has Dean burying his face in Sam’s neck. He tangles his fingers in Sam’s hair. “When’s the last time you did this?”

He regrets the question once it’s out of his mouth, because he’s pretty sure the last time Sam was intimate with anyone was Jess, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to reopen any old wounds right now.

Thankfully, Sam gets his meaning. “With a guy?” He trails his lips along Dean’s temple. “Seventeen. Boy from Indiana, back when we were there for a bit.” 

“You trying to tell me you haven’t done _this_ ,” Dean cants his hips up, crushing their cocks together, “since you were seventeen?” He tugs on Sam’s hair. “Boy, you get back on the horse real well.”

Sam chuckles, a throaty sound. “Yeah, well. It’s you.”

And however simple the words may be, it feels like it means so much more. Dean feel something knot in his throat, and he doesn’t wanna examine it too closely, not when he’s got his brother writhing on his lap, not when their dicks are aligned and Sam’s digging his teeth into Dean’s earlobe. 

Dean’s head falls back, staring at the stars, the last thing he saw before all he could see was Sam’s face; he’s struck by how crazy this is, by the abruptness of everything. Except, maybe it wasn’t so abrupt after all.

In the midst of it all, Sam is still coherent enough to string words together. “The boy I was with. In Indiana. He looked like you. I pretended he was you.”

Dean lets out a growl, his hands flying to Sam’s hips, digging into bone where his tee shirt has pulled up. He pulls, pushes, raises Sam up and yanks him back down, grinding them together. A wounded sound tumbles from Sam’s lips and Dean chases it, licking into Sam’s mouth as he continues to manhandle his little brother, to build a stuttering rhythm of thrusting and gasping.

It breaks as Sam attempts to move forward, closer, and suddenly looks down. “Wait, hold on, hold on.” Dean glances down too to see what the trouble is. One of the eyehooks of Sam’s workboot has gotten caught in the grating of the bench (which, now that Dean thinks about it, isn’t particularly comfortable, and probably is wrecking havoc on Sam’s shins, but neither of them seem to really care too much). It’s a minute of effort, Sam squirming around to try to get the hook loose from the bench. Dean’s frustrated, but Sam just laughs in the face of Dean’s impatience, and Dean can’t help but break into a smile, the full-dimpled grin on his brother’s face more blinding than Times Square.

Eventually, Sam gets his boot loose, and he somehow manages to crawl even closer so that their chests are pressed together. Dean snakes a hand under Sam’s shirt and pinches his nipple, causing Sam to jerk against him. They kiss until Dean can’t breathe, then he breaks away and sucks a bruise to the underside of Sam’s jaw, biting hard as Sam screws his hips down. Sam’s got one hand on the back of the bench behind them, the other tangled in the fine hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck. Dean’s now digging his fingers into Sam’s thighs, so hard there will surely be bruises in the morning. The thought of it, of marking up his brother, forces Dean’s hips up automatically, and he feels the blurt of precome that stains the inside of his boxers.

“’m close, Dean,” Sam gasps, and Dean releases the skin beneath Sam’s jaw with one last open-mouthed kiss.

When Dean starts running his mouth, he gets lost in his head, gets lost in the pretty images he paints with his words. “You’re so responsive,” he says again, pinching Sam’s nipples once more. “When I touch you here,” he drags his hands across Sam’s chest, “or here,” he rakes his nails down Sam’s stomach, “or here,” he digs his thumbs into the V that leads down to Sam’s dick. Sam’s muscles jump beneath his touch. “Can’t imagine what it would be like to—” He brushes the back of his knuckles across the prominent bulge in Sam’s jeans, and Sam groans like it hurts.

“Don’t be a damn tease,” he protests, taking Dean’s lower lip into his mouth and rolling it between his teeth in retribution. Their hips begin to snap faster. They’re both close now.

“Can only imagine what you’re like, Sammy. Buried so deep inside you, all that warmth, surrounding you, in and above you. Can only imagine the sounds you’ll make. Want it bad. Want to spread you out, get you all open.” His voice is a rasp, not unlike a pack-a-day smoker, and Sam’s panting hard. “Want you inside me, too. Want you to split me open with that huge cock of yours. You want that, Sam?”

In response, Sam shudders, his body locking up, and then he’s coming in his jeans. Dean’s only a few breaths behind when it hits him too, a few thrusts against Sam's ass is all it takes to tip him over. As they’re catching their breath and coming down, Dean realizes they didn’t even get a hand on each other’s dicks. They came just by rutting against each other, in some teeny park. In _public_. The thought alone makes his cock pulse belatedly, one weak burst of come almost as an afterthought.

Although Dean’s doesn’t want to move, Sam dismounts him after a minute. Dean glances down to take stock—yep, they definitely look like hormonal teenagers who just came in their pants—but he also realizes that at some point, Sam’s jeans had rucked up to his knees. He’s got a killer imprint of the crisscross grating of the bench on his shins.

“Shit, dude, you okay?” Dean reaches down and touches the area gingerly; when Sam doesn’t cringe, he begins to move his hands up and down rapidly, trying to get the marks to fade.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I bet those marks’ll be there all the way back to Hoboken, though,” Sam says, a lazy smile spreading across his face. Dean gulps. Even having just come, he’s already horny enough for round two. Hoboken suddenly seems worlds away, and he curses himself for not just spending the money to stay in the city.

They duck into a nearby 24-hour McDonalds and clean themselves up in the bathroom, mostly just soaking their entire laps and midway down their legs with water, so it looks more like a spill than anything truly incriminating. There may be some chafing as a result, but it’s better than riding the train back to Jersey smelling like sex.

When they make it to the PATH and settle in for the ride, Dean does the same thing he did earlier and pulls Sam’s legs into his lap. This time, though, he slips his hands beneath the denim of Sam’s jeans and traces the indents in Sam’s shins, the proof that all this isn’t just some vivid fantasy. Sam looks out the window, having recomposed his façade of calm, cool and collected, but Dean still feels him shiver beneath the pads of his fingers, feels the goosebumps break out across his skin. When they’re close to home and everyone else on the train is zoned out or asleep, Sam quietly reaches over and grinds his palm into Dean’s dick. Dean’s still sensitive from how hard he came less than an hour ago, but oh _God_ , it feels good.

“Who’s the tease now?” he mutters beneath his breath, and Sam just grins, not taking his eyes off the window.

xXxXx

After a hunt with a Wendigo, and then coming their brains out, they’re both pretty tired. They stumble into the shower together and soap each other down, washing the filth of the city down the drain. There’s a lazy mutual handjob, sluggish and tired and warm, before they get out, towel down, and climb into bed. The same bed. In spite of the exhaustion, Dean lies awake for longer than Sam does, afraid he’ll wake up and it’ll all be some weirdass dream. Sam’s spooning him, his lips glued to Dean’s shoulder, his arms around Dean’s waist. Sleep begins to overtake him, but not before he threads his fingers through Sam’s and holds on tight. 

xXxXx

Dean awakens slowly to wet heat on his cock. He’s too delirious to remember last night, and he thinks it’s just a really awesome wet dream until he hears Sam say his name. His eyes open wide, and he looks down his body to find Sam between his legs, his mouth hovering inches above Dean’s erection.

Once Sam knows Dean’s watching, he swallows him down, gagging, pulling off, and trying again, successful this time. Shit, _fuck_ , for a guy who hasn’t done this since he was seventeen, Sam sure as hell knows how to give a blowjob.

It’s when his orgasm is beginning to coil in his gut that Sam pulls off, jacking Dean slowly, spit slicking the way.

“Do you remember all the things you said to me last night? Something about you inside me? Or me inside you?”

Dean’s fingers scrabble for purchase in the cheap sheets. He doesn’t remember specifics of his dirty talk, but he knows his words were what pushed Sam over the edge. And he recalls some promise about allowing Sam to split him open. Shit.

“Once you recover, old man, you’re making good on all of those promises.”

He engulfs Dean’s cock and sucks hard until Dean comes with a shout, hips arching off the bed. Sam licks him clean, crawls back up into Dean’s arms and kisses him gently. “Good morning,” Sam whispers against his throat.

Dean can feel Sam’s erection pressing insistently against his thigh, but there’s no hurry. They’ve got time. They’ve got all the time in the world.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> All right, confession time. This may or may not be based on one of my own, er, encounters. With some guy in my night class. [clears throat]. I don't know if that makes me less creative, or if it's enticing because it's even closer to something that's plausible. I'll let you decide. 
> 
> ~~yes, that grating was an absolute bitch on my shins, yes, the bench bent one of the eyehooks on my combat boots permanently, and yes, I had finger-shaped bruises on my thighs for a week.~~
> 
> [This is the little park I talk about.](https://www.google.com/maps/@40.7445439,-73.9908224,3a,37.5y,24.4h,83.35t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sBiU_iReden1UdqYUxrXawA!2e0!7i13312!8i6656?hl=en)


End file.
